Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

“The cop’s probably right, it’s just some kids,” says Maggie. She doesn’t like the idea of publicity while the money remains hidden in the attic. But George Ray sighs, and she worries she’s letting him down. “What do you think we should do?” she asks him. “Stay in a motel for a while?” He looks affronted by the idea. “I want you to feel safe.”

“They’re just words,” he says gruffly. “People up here have said worse things to my face.” In horror, she imagines what those things could have been.

Then Brid announces she has a plan. Since the pigs won’t do their job, she’ll do it for them. Tonight she’ll stay up and patrol the orchard.

Maggie suggests it might not be the best idea. What would Brid do if the culprits showed up? There could be a whole gang. What Maggie doesn’t say is that she’ll have to join her out there, and that means there’ll be even less time with George Ray.

In the moment she has this thought, George Ray tells Brid he’ll patrol with her. Maggie emits a noise of protest before lapsing into silence.

The rest of the day, Brid spends no time in bed. Instead, she stalks the orchard. Near midnight, alone at the bedroom window, Maggie watches the beams from two flashlights bounce and sway down the lanes, sometimes in tandem, sometimes apart, dancing their pas de deux in the darkness. It’s one-thirty before George Ray comes to bed, his fingers and toes like ice.

“I do not approve of this climate,” he says. She makes a long game of warming him up. Then, as she’s drifting off, he remarks, “You know, she thinks it’s Wale hiding out there and writing those things.”

“She said that?”

Surely Brid can’t be so deluded as to believe such a thing. But before Maggie falls asleep, she entertains her own fantasy that it’s Fletcher, driving here in the night from Boston to harass her. She knows it couldn’t really be him. There’s only a small, persistent part of her looking for evidence that he still has feelings for her: if not ordinary love, then at least something wounded and a bit insane.

The diner in Virgil is sandwiched between the post office and a jewellery store, with a neon sign that’s never lit and a plate glass window looking in on a deep, narrow space. There are half a dozen stools at the lunch counter, seemingly always occupied by the same handful of men, and a few booths that have sat empty during each of Maggie’s meetings with Lenka over the course of the fall. This time Lenka is already ensconced in the one nearest the back when Maggie arrives.

“How was the time with grandmother?” Lenka asks as Maggie settles across from her. “She was horrible to you?” Before Maggie left for Syracuse, she told Lenka a lot about Gran.

“It could have been worse,” Maggie replies. “She was too distracted by the funeral to bother much with me.”

“You tell her of buying farm?” At their last meeting Lenka decided this was something Maggie needed to communicate.

Maggie confirms that she did, but her mind is elsewhere. She wants to tell Lenka about the money. On the drive over, her thoughts kept flitting between it and the graffiti until her head ached. She’s tired of keeping the secret. If she told George Ray, he’d wonder why she didn’t share the news with him sooner, and obviously she can’t tell Brid. But the last six weeks Lenka has been kind and solicitous, respectful of Maggie’s grief, sensitive enough to avoid subjects like miracles and faith. Maggie needs someone who’ll tell her the right thing to do.

She glances around the diner. The men perched on their stools present a row of hunched shoulders like vultures on a wire. The waitress approaches to pour their coffee, then retreats. No, it isn’t safe. But Lenka seems to sense Maggie’s thoughts slipping away and pursues them like a terrier down a foxhole.

“What is it? Tell me.”

“I was just thinking,” says Maggie. “About money.”

“Josef and I, we wonder if you have enough.”

Maggie doesn’t like the idea of them discussing her. “You encouraged me to buy the farm,” she reminds her.

“It is just that we worry about you—”

“You don’t need to,” declares Maggie. “I have a lot of money. My father sent it just before he died.” Lenka’s eyes grow wide. “Can you keep a secret? Even from Josef?”

Lenka hesitates, then nods.

Speaking in a low voice, Maggie explains about the clay saint and her father’s hinting letter. She tells of Wale’s return to Laos and her bewilderment regarding what to do. When she has finished, Lenka asks how much money there is. Reluctantly, as if this is the most private detail of all, Maggie divulges the number.

Lenka gives a low whistle. “What will you do with this sum?” she asks.

Maggie admits it’s still sitting where she found it, waiting for her to decide. An expression of understanding crosses Lenka’s face. “Ah, I see problem. You think it looks bad for father.”

Maggie feels herself bristle. “I don’t care about how the Church sees him, if that’s what you mean.”

“Still, until now you do not go to police.” Before Maggie can explain, Lenka says, “Of course, you do not hand it away. It is last thing father sends you. He wants you to have it.”

“Maybe he’d rather I donated it to the mission. I did write people in Laos. I tried to find out what happened.” More than she’d like, she feels a need for Lenka to absolve her.

Lenka sits there looking ruminative. Finally she says, “I wonder, why you tell this thing to me?” Without waiting for Maggie’s reply, she says, “I think if I ask psychologist, he tell me you really want Josef to know. However, you wish not to ruin father’s reputation before man of God, so you confess to sister instead. This is right?”

“No, it’s not,” says Maggie indignantly.

“Maggie, in spiritual matters I must not serve as substitute.”

“For God’s sake,” she mutters. “I just wanted to hear what you thought.”

To change the subject, she asks what’s new for Josef in the parish. Lenka knows very well that Maggie has little interest in the matter, but obligingly she starts into a story about the church’s leaky roof. As she does, the fact of Maggie’s sitting there seems ever more preposterous. She doesn’t care about the church roof; she doesn’t care about anything in this place. It has been foolish of her to imagine taking over the farm for good. Was it only so she could plan George Ray’s return in the spring? If his presence is so necessary, she shouldn’t be here wasting time with Lenka.

Maggie glances at her watch, and Lenka asks if she’s keeping her from something.

“I need to get home,” she replies, reaching for her purse. Without much enthusiasm on either side, they exchange a promise to see each other soon.

As she drives back to the farm, it strikes her that there is less consolation to be found in other people than she keeps hoping there will be. Perhaps once George Ray’s gone and Brid has returned to Boston, solitude won’t be as terrible as Maggie has feared. It could be the making of her. She turns onto the gravel road almost wanting it already.

Upstairs, the door to Brid’s room is closed and the silence is unnerving. Steeling herself, Maggie knocks. When there’s no reply, she pushes open the door. The air inside is sour with bed smells and burnt toast. A pair of slippers lies askew on the floor, and there’s an arm sticking out from behind the bed. No, it’s a towel, twisted and flesh toned. Brid sits near the window looking at the orchard, still in her nightie though it’s after three, her legs hidden in a plaid sleeping bag she has taken to dragging around the house with her like some larval creature not yet fully free of its cocoon.